


Desiderata

by paperfeathers



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anyways, Inspired by the idea of vessels retaining grace, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Warnings for Pining Sam and equally heartbroken Lucifer, hahahaha sob, mild NSFW, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-22
Updated: 2014-01-22
Packaged: 2018-01-09 16:12:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1148030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperfeathers/pseuds/paperfeathers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-S5 to S6. Sam clings to all he has left.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Desiderata

**Author's Note:**

> The good stuff. This is me taking advantage of the idea of vessels retaining grace. Inspired by casclarenceunicorn’s anons. (Now, off to finish and edit my FYSL piece)

It’s strongest at night. Cold nights when Sam’s sick with longing, staring at the motel room’s cracked ceiling while Dean snores in the bed beside him. Nights when Sam feels his shoulders, worn paper-thin, giving under the weight of the world. Those were the times (grown increasingly frequent as of late) that Sam would slowly, surreptitiously press his fingers against his wrist and neck, his open palm flat against his chest. Waiting and listening for the grace echoing throughout his veins, silken strands of light collecting at his pulse points. And for all that Lucifer had burned cold beneath Sam’s skin, sometimes this is the only thing left that truly warms him.

He doesn’t tell Dean, of course. If Castiel suspects anything, the seraph doesn’t say it aloud, for which Sam is eternally grateful. He doesn’t- can’t- expect them to understand. The shame is a hole burning in his heart, the guilt an ever-present weight bowing down his spine. Often he considers ripping it out by whatever means necessary, to spare himself one more burden – but night always finds him with eyes squeezed shut, feeling the steady thrum of Lucifer’s grace weaving through the beat of his blood.

Sometimes Sam dreams of him. In dreams he’s always bitter, always angry. But that softens when Sam pulls him close. Laying him out on the bed like an offering, and Sam’s always struck by how  _human_ he looks when they’re together like this. Blue eyes wide, face flushed and sweating. His hands shake where they trace the planes of Sam’s chest and back, gripping his shoulders tight enough to bruise as Sam pushes himself inside, careful and slow. Every kiss a reverent blasphemy, and to Sam there is nothing more beautiful than the sight of the Devil –  _No,_  he corrects himself.  _Archangel._  -  lost in pleasure, infamous pride softened by tenderness.  Afterwards they lie tangled together. Sam’s face buried in the junction of Lucifer’s neck and shoulder while Lucifer cards his fingers through Sam’s hair. Voice breaking as he begs Sam  _please don’t leave me alone –_

But Sam always wakes up. To solitude, and the sickly light of a new day. The grace burning him from the inside as he tries to both cling to and push away the fading remnants of the dream.

Some days it gets so bad that he finds himself filled with a strange, nervous energy. Those days he leaves Dean a note and takes off by himself. More often than not his feet end up pointing towards the ruins of a convent in Maryland. Lilith’s blood still marks the Cage’s entrance, and only when Sam curls up in the center of it does something resembling peace settle over him once again. Sam would shut his eyes, remembering the terrible, all-consuming light of Lucifer’s true form. Palms flat on the convent floor, and sometimes he thinks he feels the grace singing in his veins, the soft whisper of his name brushing against his nape. What he does know is that when he wakes up the next day, back and shoulders stiff, the stone beneath his palms is always a little too hot to the touch.

Dean doesn’t ask any questions when he returns. Sam doesn’t give any answers. Long hours of silence stretch between them as Dean drives them to the next hunt while Sam stares into nothing, fist curled against his palm.

“I miss you,” he would murmur it out loud, into the night.  _I love you, I need you_ remained unspoken. He wonders if Lucifer can hear him, trapped in the Pit. If he was clinging to whatever shred of Sam he’d taken with him, just as tightly as Sam’s holding on to what he has left of him.  _I wish it didn’t have to be this way._

He never gets an answer. But the grace spikes sharply in the chambers of his heart, then stills.

Sam wishes he could still believe in God’s mercy. Wishes he could still believe in the loving Father who he’d once entrusted with his salvation. The past few years have shattered his faith in every imaginable way. But he has to try, no matter what. So he prays, hoping his prayers would reach God, wherever he had hidden himself. Prays for only one thing, over and over and over. And even if neither of them deserved it he was past the point of caring.  _If I’ve ever done a single good thing in this life, I’m begging you, please listen._

_Please. Let me see him again._


End file.
